


Arrhythmia

by Emeka



Category: Baroque (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Incest, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Short & Sweet, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-12-16 20:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 16,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21042197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: His brother has always had his heart.





	1. Rose

He leads them out into the garden after it rains, stubbornly, by himself, until his sides ache and his nonexistant heart nearly bursts. When his brother wakes, he wants it to be in the air he imagines the outside world most smells like. Fresh, earthy, wild and uncontained. Surely not even the Order has such power they can change the scent of wet dirt and atmosphere.

So by himself he struggles with maneuvering their wheelchair from their bedroom, into the elevators, until he could finally roll out. He'd have help if he wanted it but he does not. This is a gift all by himself to his little brother.

You'll like it, won't you? Won't you? The roses are beautiful right now. If they are the first thing his brother sees... he'll surely be happy with his morning gift.

He clasps his chilly hand in his warm one. Sorry if the exertion makes your chest hurt. Please forgive me. It must be almost time; he has a pretty good grasp on how their bodies work by now, though the cycle has been growing more rapid. There's a warm fuzziness. Like static in his body.

With the last of his strength, he presses his lips to his brother's peach-round cheek, nuzzling in just a little. He reaches the corner of his mouth before he's lost.


	2. Starlight

The stars are beautiful again tonight, he writes. He debates adding, like you, and ultimately refrains. They are children and so the other angels think nothing of reading their notes to each other, and he knows they'd question it even if they didn't say anything to him. Grown-ups only think about what's dirty.

It's true though, and he wishes he could say it without worry, even better to his face. He hopes he'll be able to read between the lines as to what he means.

The night sky glitters like diamonds on black velvet, still, solemnly keeping watch. He wonders how their shine would look reflected in his brother's eyes. Looking at himself isn't quite right; they are identical, but they have their own personalities. He doesn't think his sweet little brother would have his expression. And the lamps! Off and he can't hardly see his reflection, on and it ruins the lighting. Pulling his brother's eyelids open doesn't help either. No life at all. Like a fish.

What he adds instead is, the day you and I can be awake together, I want to see them with you. The lines between are so obvious, he can't help but read them.


	3. Embrace

Hugging is simple for most people. Step close. Put arms around. Embrace. Sometimes with lower bodies awkwardly apart if they don't know each other too well. Still, it's easy. In his condition the most he can manage is a friendly one-armed squeeze around the shoulders or waist.

If he does it hard enough and ignores the pain in his waist, sometimes they get close to a full-frontal hug. Almost perfect. But it should be simple. The exertion and discomfort marr it. It's not how a good hug should go. His big brother's limp body doesn't exactly add to it either.

When he sees other people hug more and more he feels a bit jealous. He loves his brother and loves being beside him, connected to him, so much. But he wants too that all-encompassing touch, to crush their chests together and nuzzle into the side of his neck. He's a _little_ jealous that others can do so easily what he can not.

Someday he hopes they can be awake together, just like his big brother does. They still won't be able to really hug. But they can meet each other halfway.


	4. Tea

He sips. Just right. Warm enough to be a comfort but not too hot. The apple taste of chamomile languidly travels down his throat and into his guts, gently outlining every crook of his innards. He could cut himself open and find his intestines through this warmth alone.

His little brother sleeps peacefully beside him. His breath whispers from his barely open rosebud of a mouth. It prompts an urge inside him, one perfectly alright and okay. All he wants to do is share his tea. They're kids after all, barely ten. If he's careful enough he won't choke and the temperature is just right.

Sip. Hold. The inside of his mouth tingles pleasantly and heat fills his cheeks and nostrils. He slides his fingers into his brother's silky crow-hair and holds his chin in his other hand to make sure he's (unable to move away) in just the right position. The rosebud mouth reacts to the pressure and pauses before sighing a cute little whimper of breath. It meets his, pressing warm to cool, moving a little to make sure it is open enough. Milk teeth dig like soft tombstones into his lips as he releases, little by little, the chamomile and probably some of his spit.

The tea drains out of the chamber of his mouth, spilling over his little brother's teeth, tongue, into the back of his gullet. He massages his throat to help it along. The delicate cartilage thumps up into his fingers with each swallow, and soon, he feels the transfer of heat complete itself. His brother's breath washes hot into his mouth like steam. Ah ah ah. It's filling up his belly with a strange feeling.

He lays back down beside him, fingers trembling now as he grips his brother's hand in his with a desperate sense of seeking comfort. Soon all the rest of him is trembling too but... it's not a bad feeling.


	5. Rain

It is storming outside, so hard it sounds like something out of a disaster movie. He's supposed to be too old to be afraid but he can't help thinking too much. What if something caught on fire? Can their tower keep standing against a tornado? He can't quite grasp them, having only read of them in books, but surely a destructive force of nature can tear apart a tall, thin object if it can obliterate a normal house.

He lays awake, sweating, in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His big brother sleeps beside him, completely oblivious. Probably wouldn't be afraid even if he was awake. He wishes he was, one way or the other. But his brother only just fell asleep and he can't relax enough to doze.

The points of contact between them are his only comfort. Shoulders, where they are conjoined at the hip, down along their thighs. His big brother is a child like him, but he feels solid, like a foundation to lean himself against.

With more points, maybe he can feel better.

He takes his brother's hand and bows his head forward, leading his arm behind and around his shoulders, posing him into a hug with him. It's impossible to snuggle against his chest the way he'd like so he has to settle for this, leaning hard shoulder to shoulder, temple to temple. The anxious ache in his chest loosens. He's not enough a child to think his brother can save him from all and everything... but if death does come, hopefully he'll be fortunate enough to have it happen as he sleeps.


	6. Bath

For years he's wanted to be alone in the bath. Their nurse rarely accedes because they are little, and because of their condition. Maybe it's out of pity when she does, and even then she only waits outside the door--but it doesn't really matter what she, or anyone else, thinks when he says they need to trust them, how are they going to bathe when they're all grown-up? The only assistance he needs is getting in.

"It's nice to have some privacy, huh?" he says, looking over at his brother's closed eyes, and his head leaning against the bath pillow. The angle bares his throat. He looks vulnerable beyond his nudity, another reason why he prefers them being alone like this. Seeing other people looking at and touching his big brother's body makes his chest ache more than normal. They're just nurses so he hates to think of it as jealousy. 

A nurse is supposed to be clinical about their job. Detached from personal feelings especially in situations like this. Just like he's nominally supposed to be. But because they are siblings it is with a somewhat unsteady hand he begins pouring water over his body--identical to his own, but nonetheless an object of great curiousity to him. Inside this vessel he has never seen awake lies the personality called 'big brother'. His hair glimmers like his as it wets and sticks to his cheeks. His skin shines like satin. 

The hot water starts to irritate him. His stomach feels upset. He squeezes his face into his brother's neck and tries to breathe deeply. All he's feeling is nausea from the hot water, and his weak heart. Strangely this position makes it feel worse instead of providing the comfort it usually does.

But he can't let his brother go dirty, they'd never get to bathe alone again. So he meticulously suds them up from crown to feet and pauses only a moment to note the strange rising between his legs. Sometimes it stands up when he wakes up, and needs to pee. He has neither woken up very recently, and this isn't like a 'gotta pee' sensation. It's feels like _something_ unpleasant though.

The more he washes his brother the worse it feels. For the first time in his life he wishes he could seperate from him.

It doesn't go back down until the water has cooled and they are both long-since washed.

Back in bed it's hard to feel distant for long. Everything's back to normal, he thinks. And his brother smells so much better than him out of the water. Mild soapy skin, fresh cotton from their nightgown, the lingering traces of rose in his hair. His belly lurches sometimes with the aftereffect of his strange sickness but he is used to nausea by now.


	7. Teeth

They've more or less lived their whole life in bed. In time he's learned ways to ease the boredom. They read, write their letters to each other, and very slowly play chess as they alternate. A single game takes weeks.

And he plays with his big brother's body. He's sure he does the same thing with him when their positions are reversed. He brushes out his hair, pinches his cheeks, then nostrils close for just a moment to see a rare change of expression, holds his hand and fiddles with it, tracing over his knuckles and tiny fingernails.

What he's occupied with right now is prying his jaw open to look inside his mouth. He has himself lost only a few so far, and has some sore growing-in spaces in the back. Inside his big brother's mouth he sees tender fleshy walls, his uvula, and his tongue slightly off-center. A front tooth is missing, and three premolars. He inserts his finger; the humidity inside him is immediately obvious, even without touching anything. His brother's gums are soft and firm, very soft at the sides, but in the empty front space a tiny white chip almost pricks his fingerpad. The gum here looks a bit swollen. He can empathize.

Leave it to a big brother to be two ahead, he thinks, absently sucking his finger to clean the feeling of weird heat off it.


	8. Breeze

He drifts, unable to commit to sleeping. It's not his time yet, so going into a regular sleep seems like a waste. He could be awake while he's able, enjoy their body turning the space under their sheets into a radiator against the chill breeze coming in from the window someone carelessly left open earlier in the day. But it makes him so drowsy it's difficult to resist. 

"I wonder," he whispers, head turning to face the one beside him, "if it'll be soon when it's your turn. If we could experience the same night together... I'd like to have this in common with you."

His little brother does not answer. But he pauses anyway, waiting for a response that only comes in the form of his breathing. 

"I'll say... what a lovely night we had last night. And you'll say... yes, I know exactly what you mean."

Once a nurse had brought over something new from the kitchen. It was some kind of crisp biscuit filled with creme, not really the sort of food he's supposed to eat but it was a treat, she said, eyes downcast. He'd wrangled a promise out of her to save one from everyone else until his brother woke. He'd refused until then.

To all the rest it came down to a pragmatic view that people can't all experience the same things. But it makes him afraid to think like that. Like they'll grow apart, unable to any longer know each other. They need things they can share to keep them bound close.

So he focuses on every aspect of this night, just in case. Even if they can't reminisce he'll still write about it. The wind ruffling his hair, the faint throbbing ache in his body... he's starting to feel a little too warm. Not outside, but inside. It's like a fever making house.

It's been happening more lately, getting sick. The biggest shame is that it'll bring his brother down with him; he doesn't mind that much himself. 

A short while goes by and he realizes it isn't a dry, sick kind of heat. He doesn't feel ill either, as he believes he should with a fever. Every time he rubs his leg against its lefthand neighbor, he feels as light as sunshine. Maybe his brother is getting him sick first...

He keeps doing it, testing and feeling like an insect, building the heat up like men build a campfire. He'd read a book about that. Didn't end very well. But something about this is starting to feel nice. Is it just from touching his brother? He's been doing that his whole life though.

He throws his side of the comforter off with his hands and some kicking. Maybe the cool air will help whatever's wrong. Immediately he stops and stares in mild consternation. His penis is sticking up against his gown. It has done it sometimes (reasons for which his nurse sounded vague on) but never like this.

It's rude, but it's not like he can get away from his brother, so he goes ahead and pulls the front of his hem over his waist. It's not practical for them to wear underwear so it's right there, like a marshmallow standing up. Should he try to make it go down?

He touches his fingertips to it with quick, sidelong glances at the door. It feels like he's doing something dirty. He knows the basics of sex and romance, and because of sex, knows why he used to get scolded for absently fondling himself for comfort. Mechanically, he's ignorant.

The skin burns and jerks against his fingers. Electricity travels up his genitals and belly, shocking him into a little gasp. It never did that before, either. Does it have something to do with this heat?

Or... his little brother?

His leg wraps itself over his brother's under the sheet, toes curling in against his ankle, and his other hand hovers, hovers, before just taking his limp hand in his and _squeezing_ tight. His right hand continues rubbing against the small pillar of flesh.

It feels like it's getting even harder. His eyes close tight. The nice feeling concentrates all around where he's touching and spreads tendrils all through him. The heat is suffocating now. It's building up to something. Something is going to burst.

A choked 'ah' is the only sound that squeaks out of his throat. The something explodes into white-hot pleasure through every cell of his body, setting even his hair on end. It stays what feels like forever, until his belly almost tears itself apart from continually clenching, then gradually drains out until he's left shivering with something wet on his fingers.

Not a lot. Not like pee, he notes with tired relief, as he smells and prods. Too thin and unoffensive. He wipes it off on his hip and push his gown down just enough to be decent. The whole time he keeps their offhands locked together.

He doesn't feel bad--as in, morally. Peaceful down to his marrow, actually, as he continues drifting, enjoying the breeze over his heated face. He doesn't really know what happened. All that comes to mind is that no one else should know about it, and it happened because of his brother. The touch of his skin stirred up something inside him.

It doesn't surprise him. They are brothers, bound to each other for life. Of course he'd be capable of eliciting such an extreme response from him. He does wonder if it goes both ways.

But for now, perhaps that nap is in the cards after all.


	9. Letter

His letter the next day makes no note of his new discovery. Even if he could be assured of his privacy, he's not sure how his brother would react. He'd want to die if it made him think him gross. Relationship-wise, he's not sure what it means, either. Sex--and things like it--are for lovers, something he has never thought of his brother as, at least explicitly. He loves him more than anyone and anything, of course, would die for him, but does that mean he's _in_ love with him?

There's no one for him to talk about this with. It isn't like an ordinary crush.

Days then weeks pass. His letters are very ordinary. The food is getting blander as it gets more 'nutritious'. Physical therapy is tiring. How is your heart doing? The seasons turning. And your procedure?

That's another reason not to concern him. The nurses don't talk to them about it, but he's not deaf when they whisper and sigh a room away. His brother's heart is failing from the burden of supplying blood to two bodies. Ascites fluid made his little brother's belly taut and round as though he were gestating. They were both put to sleep for ease while it was removed with, he was a told, a kind of needle.

Even in his sleep now, his little brother's face looks tired and worn. His letters have been very ordinary, too. He does not discuss what distress he might feel. In that sense, he supposes they're both hiding things.


	10. Therapy

"I'm _tired_," he says, trying not to whine and not much succeeding. They've only just begun stretching but he's not lying. To his credit, he'd like to think. He's never tried to call off if he didn't feel good. All day he's been spitting up stomach acid.

"Of course you're tired." The Archangel cuts in just as the nurse raises her head, causing it to automatically lower. "That's the whole point of these exercises; to raise your threshold for activity."

"Especially tired," he clarifies, but the Archangel only rolls his eyes. "And I'm sick."

"Laying in bed all day will only make it worse." The Archangel sighs and sits on the edge of his bed. When they meet like this the back of the bed is always raised so he can move without pulling too much on his hip, but it also affords him a little dignity. He's not the kind of man you want glowering down at you while you're flat on your back. "Your legs are badly atrophied as-is. Electrical stimulation alone can't do much."

He stares down at his legs. Even covered safely beneath his nightgown there's a tell-tale curve that speaks of distortion. The regular kind. "I'll do my arms, then. I just can't face that chair right now."

It has wheeled legs and a back, so they can strap his brother in and have him try to walk. He doesn't see the point of going that far. As long as they're connected, he will always require assistance to move.

Another sigh. "Arms, then. But don't think you'll get out of it next time." 

He wishes he could tell him his wings look tawdry in the caustic light of his room. He wishes he knew the way to say it. But he's one of the few who comes to see him regular, so he supposes he has to play nice. He's just feeling testy, anyway.

What feels like ages after, the back of his bed is down again, he is alone, and sweating with exertion. He wishes he had his big brother's stamina. They tell him sometimes, just to goad him he thinks, that his brother goes about activity with more gusto than he does. Unfortunately it works. He does do his best, but it's not quite enough. Even non-cardio makes his chest feel heavy and tight.

"You don't even have a heart," he pouts, placing his palm over his chest, then his brother's. In his own he feels his heart beat a tattoo against his skin, pulsing noisily, desperately, sometimes pounding even in his ears. In his brother's is only an eerie emptiness. "So stop upstaging me. Okay?"

He kisses his faintly pulsing neck goodnight. My blood, for you.


	11. Shadow

Between then and now he manages one more session. Other than sleep and stare at the ceiling, the only energy he has goes into as much effort as he can put into his relationship with his brother. His turn at the chessboard, a sentence or two in his letter. Trying to read makes his eyes burn.

He thinks it is sometime in late fall when the Archangel comes to see him, though he has not been outside in a long time, a guess made by the brisk afternoon air and mild sunlight. Him being in his room and glaring at him with those blood-red eyes would normally make him straighten out in attention, but all he can do is stare back apathetically as he takes a chair by his bedside.

"There's nothing we can do for the both of you." The first words out of his mouth. Not even a good day. "At this rate, you'll both die."

He's not sure if it's hard to think about because of how he is, or the strange concept of death. As sick as they've been getting he hadn't considered it going that far. "As long as I'm with brother..."

"Don't be sentimental." The Archangel leans forward, hands coming to rest on his knees. The frame of his glasses makes his eyes stand out even more. Red. "We can save one of you. Tell me you have some will to live after all you've been through."

"Me?"

"It's for you both to decide, but of course it'll be easier with you. All it will take will be the removal of your parasitic twin" ignores his disbelieving 'no' in protest "and we can go to work reversing some of the damage done to your heart. _He_ would require not only the surgery to seperate you, but a heart transplant. The chances of surviving both when they must be performed on top of each other are slim."

He tries to sit up but a jolt of pain immediately runs through his hip. "You can't do that." Something is racing in his head. Everything is pounding. Death? It's real. It could happen. To him, to them, before they're even teenagers. "We're _supposed_ to be together, we were _born_ together."

But the Archangel's eyes are implacably cold. "One or the other."

"Please don't--don't tear us apart."

"One. Or the other."

Death. The cessation of life. One night he could go to sleep and simply not wake up. Or his heart might finally give out while he's still awake--imagine this pressure in his chest times ten and knowing that he is dying. He bursts into a weak, mostly silent fit of tears. "I don't want to die!"

It's a short summer rain. He doesn't have the strength even to cry for long. The Archangel watches him silently as his choked sobs gradually soften to sniffles and hiccups, and when the tears finally leave his vision, he thinks his face looks a little softer. Maybe it's wishful thinking. "I don't... don't want to, but..." His brother. How could he live with himself? "If I can stay with brother to the end, even if we have to be... put to sleep..."

The Archangel shakes his head. What he has to say is obvious before he opens his mouth. "We're not going to allow you both to die. An attempt, at least, must be made for one of you. You know my thoughts on the matter."

"But how can you ask us to choose?"

"I am only asking you to do what must be done."

The Archangel stands slowly, his great wings hovering a moment over his bed, casting a shadow like a real angel over him. The hand he places on his head--only places, no stroking--for just a moment has no warmth.

He stays up with his brother for hours after, watching the light travel around his room as the sun does with a bleak sense of expectation. A letter. He should write to his brother. But he has so long kept him out of the majority of what he goes through it seems cruel to dump this on him. 

His brother would prefer to hear it from him. Even knowing that, he can't bring himself to start.


	12. Husk

He listens quietly. It's not exactly that he accepts what he's hearing. He just feels numb everywhere. But no part of him is protesting. He supposes it makes sense, or that on some level he knew it. But it's still unreal to him. They are dying. Like the flowers outside are with the cool weather coming in. Shrivelling up, becoming a husk. 

He glances over at his brother. A strange sensation, almost like reproach, goes over his mind. If he'd told him what he and the Archangel discussed he'd be more prepared. He'd have more time to know to say goodbye.

"Well, it's easy, isn't it?" he says, unwilling to look away. He might make a fool of himself and cry if he did that, or worse, get angry. There's not even a reason to get like that, except the Archangel has this whole while been pushing for his obvious choice, and even if he agrees, he hates being told what to do. "It has to be me."

"So you are of the same mind."

He strokes his brother's thin cheek, and the silky-smooth dark circles under his eyes. Affection wells up inside him, thankfully only going up as far as tightening his throat, instead of watering his eyes. Does he love him, or is he _in_ love with him? Maybe it's for the best he never know. "I'm his big brother. So..." There are a million ways to end that sentence, all too private to say in front of a man he barely knows.

It's his job. His duty. What he was born to do. Recompense for all the years he survived on his heart. Because for him 'big brother' is a title gifted to him out of how his brother viewed their relationship, than an actual fact of birth order. They had been pulled together from their dying mother's belly. He must live up to it.

"Dextera wants this as well." The sound of the name makes him cringe. It's not a way he's ever thought of him as. "He's counting on you--as your little brother." There's a sharp, sarcastic note to the Archangel's voice that finally makes him look at him. They're burning, his eyes. Scorching into him for reasons he's not sure of.

He looks away again. His little brother's pulse flutters in his neck. "I'm going to count on you, too. To look after him when I'm gone."

He feels his eyes crawling over their faces. The Archangel doesn't say anything when he leaves, but that's fine. He just needs to know he heard him.

"Only good for one thing, right?" he whispers, clasping his brother's face in both hands and turning it to face him. Their noses touch. Light puffs of breath warm his lips. It tingles, his mouth and everywhere else, too. He's not sure if he means himself or the Archangel.


	13. Thirteen

Their last day could be anytime now. The nurses have been vague about it; either trying to see how long they can go on before separation is absolutely vital, or to spare their feelings. For himself, he thinks this unending sense of anxiety is even worse. It'd be better to know.

If he knew, he could keep these thoughts out of his head. Every time he goes to sleep he wonders if it'll be his last chance.

"There's still one thing we haven't experienced together, right? Well, you still won't since you're asleep, but maybe your body will remember for you." He says these things into his brother's ear, and fancies he can see the peachfuzz rise in response. His brother... his cute little brother, who he's pretty sure he shouldn't be thinking about like this.

It's the middle of the night but he's still very careful, under the comforter, pulling up the gown they share together. "I'm sorry, but--" even quieter, because everything else is selfish. I want this. I want to be the first. Please don't forget me. When you're older, I don't want to be just your 'brother who passed a long time ago'. I want to be right beside you... always...

He can tell even by feel that his brother's thighs are thinner than they used to be. They're still amazingly soft though, especially right in the inside, and where they meet his hip. Narcissism does not apply in this situation, because while looking into his face, the idea of himself does not enter his mind. Yes, they are identical. But the only person he sees is his little brother.

"I should have told you you were beautiful."

The side of his thumb brushes a squishy bundle of flesh. Testicles. And, adjusting slightly, he feels his penis right above it. He's probably touched him here before, as a curious child with nothing better to occupy himself with, but not in recent memory. And back then he'd had no concept of what he was doing. Now, the fact that he's doing something he'd get in trouble for lingers tantalizingly in the back of his mind.

"I love you." His hands are small enough his brother's undeveloped penis fits just fine. He hasn't done this to himself again since the first time out of anxiety about their whole situation, but he remembers how it felt. "I think I'm _in_ love with you." Doesn't matter that they're siblings. They've spent their life connected, sharing flesh and blood. They are more intimately bound together than any pair of lovers could ever be. "I'm sorry." Sorry if you never wanted this. This is a little selfish, then... but you'll never even know it happened.

The awkward angle forces him to place his elbow and forearm along his belly, since he can't adjust himself to face his body toward him. He can still look him in the face though, and that's all he really needs. Expression flickers over his little brother's features as he jerks off his nubbin as well as he can figure from his limited experience, in little pulls and squeezes, rubbing his thumb over the wet top. His brother doesn't talk in his sleep but sometimes he sighs and shakes his head. Maybe he can feel what he's doing to him in a dream. Maybe it's a coincidence.

The sound of what he's doing gets conspicuously loud in the big, open space of their room. His other hand goes to his own groin, and finds his penis already sticking up. Touching it feels even better than the first time; he has to bite back a moan as he starts stroking. His little brother does not moan but his mouth has fallen open, and his hard breathing fills up the room along with the wet noises.

His mouth, right there, breathing on his mouth.

He kisses him. He thrusts his tongue into his unresisting mouth and feels him in every way he can, over the ribbed roof, into the inviting empty spaces between his tiny pearls of teeth, sucking and swirling until their lips and noses are squished together. Physical sensation becomes emotional ecstacy and his penis is overcome with a feeling so white-hot he has to stop moving and let it ride through him.

Can't help whimpering. Thankfully he has something to muffle himself against.

He pulls away with big gasping breaths as soon as his toes stop twitching, and his hand is wet again with something or other. Both hands, he realizes with another rush that makes his vision spotty. A wave of nausea hits his gut. Maybe he's gotten overly excited. His little brother's complexion is hectic too. 

After he feels a bit more stable in a few seconds, he brings his hands up. It's only a little of the stuff, still clear. He sucks on the hand he fondled his twin with. Hard to make anything of it. Tastes like nothing but he'll cherish whatever comes from his brother. His other fingers he sticks into his brother's mouth and drags down his tongue. No response to swallow or even gulp, but he likes knowing some of him is in him too. Proof of this night that might last longer than his scrunched eyebrows and sweaty brow.

He pulls their gowns back down to be decent for the morning. It's even harder to reach across now that he's tired and his belly is sore. But now he can settle back under the comforter with him, one leg over his, thigh on thigh and noting the feel of him with inappropriate attentiveness. Just for a little bit, until he's ready to drop off.

"I love you," he says, closing his eyes. A smile lifts his lips. "Goodnight."


	14. Light

He woke up already squinting. The bright light hurt his eyes. Everything did. The walls. His sheets. A searing white. Even the pieces on his chessboard that stood out like blood spots.

In attempting the avoid the ceiling lights at least, he turns his head to one side, then the other, then stops. The whiteness all around stretches from the space beside him as well, where there is room for another. There's even a pillow in place, with an indent in the middle the size of a small child's head.

He stares for a long time. His heart races but the tears he thought he'd have do not come.

Dizzy. His vision wavers but--close his eyes tight, and it fades. It's better that it was done like this. Better he didn't know beforehand. He'd have been a mess but this way it's already over.

It's like he's not hurt at all.


	15. Funeral

The funeral was private. Him, and the Archangel, and the closed box. He had a morbid desire to see what came of his brother's body after the separation. Best keep it to himself. This soon after he was still parked in a wheelchair, wrapped in bandaging from thigh to waist. The pain in his hips throbbed almost constantly, often so badly it drove him to scream. The medication he was given would have helped but usually he hid it. The pain felt like a reminder.

They stood together awhile in the light drizzle that was coming down, with only one aborted attempt at conversation on the Archangel's part ("when I was younger... well, nevermind.") He still felt no desire to cry.

Not long after he was inducted into the Order itself as the twelfth member of the Koriel. All he could think of the entire time was the grave, his brother's body in it, and what it looked like. Therapy continued. His chest still felt heavy from time to time but his overall health improved, and gradually the IV marks on his arms faded away. The rest of his teeth grew out then in. Next year he graduated to crutches to get around.

He obediently went from thing to thing as they were told to him. Inside he feels always the same as he did the day he woke up alone.

Is it the feeling of being unconnected? He has no one else to connect to the way he and his big brother were. All he has is the remainder, in the shape of this huge scar twisting along the side of his hip.

He wishes he could have kept his bed in the hospital ward. His new bed is too big for him. Every night he stays hours awake and pressed tight to the wall before he finally drifts off. His nails run along his scar as it forms, from soft pink flesh knitting together around stitches, to the thick mass of scar tissue that gives him more trouble overcoming his limp. If he wanted, he could rip it back open. The idea calls to him. But realistically, he knows he can't become one again like that.

It's hard to find any other way. In the same room with people his eyes slide over them and his ears tune them out. What do you want from me? What do I want from you? That's what most his interactions come down to.

When he's older he learns of another way people call 'becoming one'. He is hopefully intrigued--that finally, he can replace the closeness he used to feel. It doesn't take long for a casual invitation from an older man who admits in a glassy complimentary voice to have been eyeing him a while. Same-sex, this kind of thing no one cares about. No children to worry about, especially with what potentially problematic genes he may carry.

All it amounted to was staring at the ceiling in another room. Is this really becoming one? Even when it stopped being uncomfortable, he felt incomplete. He left as soon as possible to clean up and feel like himself, instead of being poorly intermingled with another.

It ended up like that, as many times as he tried to become one with someone.

Maybe it had all been a lie.


	16. Replacement

"You're getting a reputation."

He jumps slightly and looks up from the text he'd been poring over to peer at the Archangel. It's not as difficult as it is with most people. Maybe because he actually likes him a little--in the way one likes a distant older brother. In some ways the way he talks and acts reminds him of his brother's letters, and the honest, straightforward personality he had displayed through him. 

Things still come down to the same in the end. "And? ...what do you want?"

"Do I need to want something?" He stands over him in the white light, the bright light, face obscured. There's a word for that he can't remember. "Not regular gossip either; they're calling you a dead fish."

"Huh."

"'Huh'. No one is forcing you into anything, are they?"

He shakes his head, feeling a little gratified. It's what his brother would have asked (though, his brother wouldn't have let him go so far to start). The attention makes him wonder something else, something else he immediately shoves into the back of his head. The Archangel is the closest he has to a big brother now. One simply does not think such things about their brother.

But he remembers. Maybe it will be different like this. Maybe this is what it will take. Maybe he needs a semblance of what he once had to become one again.

A few days later he invites the Archangel to his room (other way would never work) on a pretext for tea and some talk. It's mostly still bare and empty in the apartment he calls his room. Necessary furniture and little else. It's fine. There's nothing else to look at but each other, really.

The first move is his, right after the cup is lowered to reveal his slightly moistened lips. He leans forward and up, digging the table into his belly to reach, knocking their mouths together. So warm. It's just the tea but it's nice. Everyone else had been lukewarm.

The Archangel returns the gesture easier than he feared he might. His mouth knocks back even harder to his and his hand grabs his hair at the back of his head. It hurts his scalp but it fades away when he closes his eyes. 

If he thinks of him like his brother... _as_ his brother, for the first time a glow of warmth lights up his belly. Like the tea, but even more pleasant. He shouldn't but if he does, and second by second he does.

"Not like a dead fish at all," the Archangel murmurs with his teeth balanced on his lower lip. Too gently to hurt but still like a threat. "Or am I different than the rest?"

He remembers his brother's lips chapping in the summer. The nurses would leave balms for them to apply but he liked first to peel the dead strips of skin off himself. He remembers how the tension would rise each time when the strip met the live flesh, and pulling very gently to keep it from bleeding. The Archangel's teeth scraping as he talks remind him of that. He nods a little, to keep himself from bleeding.

He gets pulled around, almost over, the table and into his lap. Hands all over his body it feels like. Playing with him like a bored child plays with a toy. The glow brightens promisingly. It's so close. He can become one with someone, even like this, even with someone who is a reminder of his brother.

He didn't mean to say anything. But it seems his head and heart are so full he does inadvertently. All of a sudden his mouth is stinging--either drooling or bleeding after all-- and his body is jolted through with the impact of landing on the floor. His butt hurts too.

"Don't call me that." The Archangel stands, glowering and knuckling at his mouth. A few spots of red stand out against his moon-pale skin. "I'm not a substitue for him."

Who for, then? he wonders, feeling immediately, once again, cold and his own person. The door to his apartment slams open and shut somewhere in the distance. Leave it be, leave it be. He'd been mad but not disgusted, and pride would keep him from saying anything that'd make himself look a fool as well. Just a substitute.

Is that all he is? But a substitute implies... that the preferred object is...

Getting too close to the surface again. Don't think about it. Time to put up the kettle and cups, go to bed. Things will be back to normal tomorrow.


	17. Blaze

When talk began going around in their circle about how the Archangel was using the Consciousness Orbs he had initially planned to stay out of whatever happened. Recognition of the fact that it was something that _should_ alarm him did not urge him to action, either. It simply... was.

So he sits, and listens, mostly ignored. Then he hears the one thing that makes his chest heavy like the way it always used to feel:

"With the Dabar Fusion, we can give God the voice of a human."

On many long long nights he had contemplated taking his own life, turning back only because his brother had given his life to save his, and he would not squander the sacrifice. He's not sure how much of 'him' would remain after the Fusion, but it wouldn't be committing suicide, and even if he was at least it would be for a cause. 

"But... who should be fused?"

No need to volunteer himself. It's all eyes on him.

"I think No. 12 is good. He has already lost half of himself."

God is One with everything. If he becomes One with God, maybe it would be the same as having his brother back.

On May 14, 2032 A.D., the attempt is made. For a single moment, right as two becomes one at the merging point, he feels a presence inside him so familiar he might finally cry.

The sharp cutting sensation of the second separation of his life pierces that mutual point, cleaving them apart, and with the parting is born a catastrophic heat wave.


	18. Unforgettable

"Purify your sins. Heal the world."

The boy was sent into the tower with little more than these words, and the weapon now strapped to his back. There is a vague memory, approaching instinct, of what it is he must do. Reach the bottom floor. Purify the Absolute God. It itches in his bones.

He has his doubts even before he beats a giant fanged fish to death with his bare fists, but the angel was right about how he feels inside: this crushing weight of guilt. And in this strange world he has been the only one to tell him what to do, or who he is.

It's his fault the world is like this. The guilt tells him it's true. He has to fix it.

The boy reaches his first underground floor. It feels like descending into a steel cage. The dull tang of rust hangs in the air. Metallic creaks and groans echo from afar, almost masking the sound of movement. 

He carefully makes his way around the edges of the room to look for the next teleporter. The rooms, while similar in appearance, are strange mishmashes of different shapes and hallways. The lighting is poor, from no discernible source, and ceilings range from close to so high they disappear in the dark. More of the huge fish are here, and a flea-like bug that explodes purple blood all over his shoe when he stomps on it.

One room he sees at the end of a hall calls to him, even though he can see the next teleporter across from him. It's filled with a golden light that is hugely out of place with this place. His legs carry him straight toward it.

A foot in and a searing light of pain crosses his head, behind the eyes. A vision imposes itself in them--it has to be a hallucination, because there is no other way to account for the sudden appearance of a translucent child's form. It speaks, though the sound seems disconnected from its lips.

"Do you remember our scar? Have we... forgotten our scar?"

The boy's heart races and his thin chest squeezes tight, like it might collapse on itself. A scar. This child's dark hair and a solemn frown. His throat works to speak, just to ask who it is, but even if he could, the vision fades away.

His knees give out. The guilt inside him stirs and doubles, becoming a black all-consuming thing clogging up his lungs. It hurts to breathe, so in short gasps, he looks over his body with a trembling calm that is all he can manage. Scratches and blood on his knuckles, fresh bruises on his forearms. He runs his fingers over his face and scalp--still nothing. He pulls his shirt off and sees it immediately, a grotesque roping scar over his right hip. Black dots litter his vision moments before he vomits.

a sin his sin the sin he committed

He retches and gags on stomach acid, falling forward until his forehead scrapes against the floor. His chest, it's being crushed, filling up and being crushed. More acid comes up his nose. He sneezes it out and reaches blindly for his scar, bites his fingernails to it, holds like a lion holding the neck of its prey. A memory wavers beneath the fog in his head.

This scar. Something about this scar.

The boy collapses onto his side. Apathy born from nowhere that he can tell leadens his limbs. The desire to stay in this strange golden room where the vision appeared to him is strong. He doesn't ever want to leave.

He does not.


	19. Phantom

The boy awakes again in the outskirts of the Neuro Tower.

Howling in the distance.

He stares blankly around himself. Tingling in his spine and a whisper in his mind says this isn't quite right. He was somewhere else. Wasn't he?

He waits a moment to see if the answer will come to him. Vague, washed-out images of a place he has never been arise from the cloudy depths of his head.

That's all. He continues walking forward, with lack of anything else to do.

An angel appears before him and this too seems like something he almost expected. The feel of the Rifle he gives him to use almost doubles in his hand. The meaning in him using it; is that why it feels like this? The angel disappears before he can ask anything of him, though he realizes before he tries it'd be no use.

Just to be sure, he presses his fingers to his adam's apple, opens his mouth, and nothing. Not even a vibration in his throat. Has he always been mute, or is this another part of his penance?

If he does what he's supposed to, everything will become known to him.

The boy's sense of nostalgia does him more harm than good navigating the tower. It's like having gone to a place once a long time ago, and yet feeling absolutely sure on a revisit that changes have occurred that don't make much sense. Not decorations, or furniture, anything small like that, but the arrangement of the rooms themselves. Hallways lead to rooms they didn't before, a room is a deadend instead of opening to another. His mental map is in flux between now and what his head seems to recall. Getting into scrapes is easier with his lessened fear and the suggestions of bodily instinct.

Beyond the teleporter is a small hallway leading to a room suffused with a golden glow. The metal glows with it. Looking at turns his mouth dry. His chest tightens.

Part of him is warning him not to but he can't stop himself from walking right past the teleporter. It's waiting for him here. Something just for him.

One step over the threshold and an instant bolt of pain tears through his head. It hurts so bad his eyes instantly water; but in the tears he sees the shape of it, like a halo of light. Everything blurrs together but he stumbles his way toward it, hands outstretched.

They pass through the figure's shoulders, as he thought they would, but still he tries to make contact. Through the head of black hair, arms, collarbone. It speaks and his ears ring.

He tries to kneel, only making a token effort of bending his knees before they give completely, slamming him to the grated floor. The small of his back groans in protest between that and his forward shift onto all fours then chest down, cutting his cheek. Five perfect tiny toes with nails like delicate chips of fine porcelain are close enough to kiss, if only he could. He kisses the floor beside them instead, with slow, worshipful reverence.

When he opens his eyes again the figure is gone. He pulls himself up against a wave of reluctance. Every cell in his body is screaming to stay here. But maybe the reason he feels such attachment to the phantom is he was someone he was close to, and wronged when when he destroyed the world. If that's the case, he needs to hurry on, so he can make things right again.

He stands, wipes the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand, and goes back the way he came.


	20. Water

By now the boy has gone through several lives that he can recall. Memories of them are clearest at the beginning, and have by now molded into a general font of experience. They get fuzzier the deeper they go into the depths of the tower, and there he has no knowledge of what occurs. Did he 'die'? He could not have have purified the Absolute God... because then he'd have done what he was supposed to.

He remembers things changing out here, as well. He remembers the longnecked creature burying itself, and the orb with his Baroque. So this time when he awakes, he knows enough to know the wasting Sentry Angel behind him is new. The large doorway that had always been blocked-off to him might be accessible now.

It looked the same as the tower inside. Assuming they were both owned by the Order of Malkuth, he supposes that makes sense. Not far in, he came to a room carrying a consciousness orb. A Research Angel locked him inside. He's been a bit preoccupied with _this_ to worry very much about _that_ at the moment, though.

It's himself? In tubes all around the room. That Angel called it the second clone laboratory. His eyes unfocus with a soft sense of disbelief as he looks from one side to the other. They're talking to him. Myyour Idea Sephirah. For Eliza.

Is this where he came from? Where he's been coming from?

What does that make him?

He smashes his fist into the glass and liquid comes crashing out around his feet. The... clone... stares at him eyes half-open, like a vegetable, despite the measure of sentience it must have.

What's inside you? Another 'me'?

His hands smear blood over the glass as he grabs and pulls off fragments until he has made a hole big enough to reach in. The clone neither resists nor helps as he drags him out.

It remains perfectly passive as he lays it down and looks through it, comparing the size of its palms to his, the length of its fingers to his, the touch of its face and the shape of its chest beneath the bandaging. In every way it looks and feels like him.

The bandaging is tied on so thick he has to bite through some of it to get it off. His dripping hands have soaked through its abdomen but he still sees it beneath. The scar. The scar on the right side of its hip. It looks wrong on someone else. Because it's his scar? No, it's as though it's out of place.

He runs his hand over what sprouts out from the band of its pants. He shouldn't be seeing it like this on another person. He wants to rip it off. The clone still stares at him placidly, like it's sleeping with its eyes open.

Purify it. Like he did to the longnecked thing.

His thumbs cross over on its adam's apple. What a thin, soft neck he has. His fingers overlap on the tips. A little pressure, put on bit by bit, waiting for a reaction, until he's leaning all of his weight onto his arms. Even if this is what it wants, how can it not fight at all? Does whatever consciousness it possesses only extend to speech?

Its breathing turns raspy, then choked, then stops completely. Still no expression but the faint sign of awareness in its eyes disappears as congested blood fill its face. All it once it's gone (jolting his shoulders as his knuckles drop into the ground) and a orb rises in the place of its heart. Myyour Pure Water.

It sends a glow over his arms like the reflection water makes on the wall. The light emanating from it is just as soft. Like it encapsulates a shining pool.

The boy feels nothing when he grabs it. Only by sight can he tell he has his fingers around it; then, releasing, it floats a little off his palm. Giving this to that woman shouldn't have anything to do with him purifying the Absolute God... but there's no reason not to. And something about her feels very nostalgic.

He makes his way to the locked door to see if he can't find some way to force it; on the path his vision goes dark and a comfortable nothingness surrounds him.


	21. Recollection

He has been in a terminal state of shock since Eliza helped him to recover his memories. He remembers everything. His childhood. The other angels. The Neuro Tower as it used to be. The Dabar Fusion, through which he destroyed the world. The brother he allowed to die. The scar on his hip.

His brother. He allowed him to die.

But the Absolute God is One with everything.

At the bottom of the tower he finds Her that had once been It, the feminine form taken after the Dabar Fusion. Don't go crazy, She says, with the voice he gave Her, save the world, don't go crazy.

He's not sure which would be which, to fuse with Her again, or use the power of purification She gave to him in turn. All he wants to act toward right now is his own selfish desire, whether it saves the world or not.

It is a genuine, tender affection he feels as he embraces Her. You are One, and through You, I too can be One. They are already merging together. The language God speaks flashes through his mind for an eternity, in a millisecond, with inimitable beauty. And he can feel the love She has for him as well.

He wakes again outside the Neuro Tower and sees his brother's form on a ledge from a floor high up, his own age now, again identical. A hallucination still, perhaps, or a phantom, like Eliza and Alice, fragments of God torn away after the Dabar.

It asks that deadly question. "Who will die?"

The old words flow from his mouth. "I don't want to die."

"Then I... will die."

His brother falls and like so many years ago, he can't save him. Disappears before he can land in his arms in a flash of light and a few errant feathers. He stares at his hands, the same ones he cradled him with all their short time together. "I should've been the one to die." Repayment for all the love he gave him, all the ways he consoled him, and kept him happy through what would have otherwise been a normal, lonely life. His throat is clogging up. "Let me die instead!"

Another chance.


	22. heartof51432

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	23. Night

"I don't think you understand the odds of what you're asking," the Archangel says slowly, sliding his glasses back up his nose.

"It's this, or nothing at all." He looks into his big brother's face to steady himself. For a moment he felt overcome with vertigo, as if he'd been displaced from his own head. Worse than the dizzy spells he's used to. "He's done so much for me... I want to do something in return. Like a brother should."

"Do you think this is what he'd want?"

"It's my heart," he says quietly. "Even if it ends with us both dying... that's fine, too."

He strokes his brother's eyelids. They flutter, almost tremble, back and forth underneath his finger. So thin he can feel the slight protuberance of the pupil. 

The Archangel sighs. "If that's your decision."

"Thank you." 

At night the fear of death does loom over him. He can't comprehend non-existance, and the idea of being somewhere, alone, without his brother, makes him cry to himself. But he can't help the idea in his head that won't stop ringing that this is the right thing to do.


	24. Title

Everything went as well as could be hoped. The older brother survived both grueling procedures. Even though he felt as though failure of his duty as an older brother would kill him from grief, he struggled to give meaning to his brother's sacrifice. The younger's heart, though worn, provided the best chances of acceptance, and was simply the only one available for his immature body. Even a heart received from a teenager would have been too large. From a sentimental standpoint, it was also a worthy memento.

Almost an entire year passed as he recuperated just from his surgery and after there was still no peace. He was put through his old paces to have him walking, and soon after he was inducted into the Koriel.

"As the thirteenth, of course."

The Archangel's features scrunched into a delicate moue, like he'd mentioned peeing in the shower instead. "There will be twelve, counting you. Why thirteen?"

"To save a space in honor of my little brother."

The Archangel made a very 'eye-rolling' type expression without doing so (and he has since heard it in the tone of others when addressing him). "I suppose there's no harm in it. I'll leave you to your rest then, Sinestra. Excuse me, Koriel XIII."

Laugh it up. "Thank you. I'm looking forward to officially joining the Order."

It's a relief to have him and all the rest gone. His tolerance for others has never been high; it's even worse nowadays. 

He palms the front of his chest and feels it there, his brother's heart thudding in his chest. As terrible as he feels to have it, a not-insignificant part of him swoons over it. The very organ his brother sustained them both with, pumping his brother's blood still, he'd like to think, all through him. Thinking about it too much makes his stomach flutter. Improper when his brother is barely buried so he tries not to do anything disgraceful, but it doesn't take much for his rubbing to become more of a caress.

He rolls over and sticks his hands under his pillows.


	25. Fantasy

Loneliness over the years has only gotten colder and colder. Sometimes he is given attention with expectation of something else, attention that he icily rebuffs. It wouldn't fix this feeling. They're not who he wants to be with.

(or sleep with, either) he thinks on more and more nights all alone in his bed, with his brother's heart beating away like a drum inside him. He's been several years now dead, no way he can blame him if his big brother needs a little... self-comfort, right? To get through the lonely times?

He squeezes his eyes tight. It's a nice, cool night, like the days he remembers of their childhood. His belly flips in anticipation with his hands gliding down it in one stuttering movement. A cool night but his skin is seductively warm, the way his little brother's thighs were. The tips of his fingers glide into the crease of his hips, leading into the start of his pubic hair.

His cock is already good and hard when he reaches it. Surely his identical twin would grow up to look just like him; so even as he touches himself, part of his mind can't help fantasizing touching his little brother like this. Stroking up the shaft would send a tingle down his spine... just so... rubbing his thumb, glancing the edge of his nail into the glans, would be a nearly painful shock, making him whimper (he moans aloud, with the voice that is also his brother's, just to hear it) and lock his thighs together.

Please, he thinks of his brother whispering, in his arms, face upturned to look at him through heat-hazed eyes, I know it's wrong but it feels so good. He'd teach him what little he knew of sex but it'd be right, fumbling and learning together. And maybe then, the sad unfortunate fact of their no longer being conjoined could have a silver lining: he could marry him privately, as he hears lovers outside his world sometimes do, and make his childhood bed the place of their consummation. It would be joining their bodies in a new way.

It'd be amazing inside his brother. He has no sensation on his cock to compare with but his hand, which is pleasant enough, but to think of something hotter and tighter, and the reactions and adorable expressions on his brother's face, leaves no room for doubt. He'd mate and breed him for every minute they could get alone together, knowing it was that filthy word _incest_ and still fill him to bursting with his seed--

He bites down on his wrist to keep the panting in check and semen bursts out to stick or drip off his blanket and run down his still, squeezing hand. Each throb jackhammers through his balls, up through his cock, and out his spurting head. If only he could have made his brother feel this good conscious. Even back then? Definitely. His brother, so cute.

A minute passes as he catches his breath. His heart beats in time with every twinge. Dirty. He's dirty. But his brother loved him so much, to give him his heart. It could just be fraternal affection. Maybe it'd be lying to himself to hope he'd want this too if he ever grew up. But tonight, and every other night to come, he'd like to think so for just a little while.

He tosses the blanket mostly aside, and considers the idea of his brother in every way as he repeats his formative sexual experience, licking his fingers off. It's thicker and more bitter than it used to be but he barely notices. It's such a nice night.


	26. ▲Left

When talk began going around in their circle about how the Archangel was using the Consciousness Orbs he had initially planned to stay out of whatever happened. Whether the world distorted or not, his brother would remain dead. Fighting for himself didn't seem worth it.

So he sits, and listens, mostly ignored. Then he hears something that squashes his chest with titanic pressure. Is this how his brother used to feel? It's like the onset of a heart attack.

"With the Dabar Fusion, we can give God the voice of a human."

On many lonely lonely nights he had contemplated taking his own life, turning back only because his brother had given his life to save his, and he would not squander the sacrifice. He's not sure how much of 'him' would remain after the Fusion, but it wouldn't be committing suicide, and even if he was at least it would be for a cause.

"But... who should be fused?"

No need to volunteer himself. It's all eyes on him.

"I think No. 13 is good. He has already lost half of himself."

God is One with everything. If he becomes One with God, maybe it would be the same as having his brother back.

On May 14, 2032 A.D., the attempt is made. For a single moment, right as two becomes one at the merging point, he feels a presence inside him so familiar he might finally cry.

The sharp cutting sensation of the second separation of his life pierces that mutual point, cleaving them apart, and with the parting is born a catastrophic heat wave.


	27. Memory

He wakes with his memory whole, distorted.

Are these his memories? Or another's? The clones. It feels like he shouldn't know they exist, but he does. Or... his brother?

The door behind him is open.

The tower goes down deeper than it had before.

He does(n't) remember the Pure Water he gave to Eliza, fusing with the Absolute God not once, but twice(, three)? It is (not) his own memory.

He gazes up at the crimson sky, the tower looming in the dusty horizon. He has seen this (never) time and time again.

The clones work because of the consciousness orbs. He does(n't) remember what the Archangel's image once told him; that his consciousness is implanted into his bodies through the orbs, each time he dies and lives again. They are also connected to the Absolute God, who is One with all. Perhaps, somehow... that connection, even distorted, is enough to carry his/their consciousness/memories/self across more than bodies.

His fingers tremble as he reaches under his shirt. The scar on his left hip is all he needs to know who he is. Whether the original or a clone, he is 'big brother'.

Howling in the distance. He goes.


	28. Heart

He almost strolls through the first underground floor of the tower, bloody sword in hand. The floors shift each time he descends the tower but he knows basically what to expect. Only giant fish and flea-bugs this early on. He could scrap them in his sleep at this point.

The golden room waits for him on this floor. It's the only thing giving him any anxiety at the moment. If it is a hallucination, will he have it too? If it's something else... he has no memory of being the phantom, is all he knows. Take it for what it is, whatever that's worth in this age.

It waits only a hall away. Like a hungry mouth it waits. His heart beats faster as he approaches, his stomach roils in an uneasy mix of trepidation and excitement. That he could move on without it only flits through his mind. One way or another, he must know.

A distant pain thunders through his head as the phantom figure transposes itself onto his vision. That's the best word he can think for it. As though it really isn't something that can be seen but somehow attached directly onto his eyes. Maybe it's the unreality washing in at what he's seeing.

There's no denying who it appears to be. Himself or his brother. And the sight of it, so achingly familiar, stirs up a flurry of love, nostalgia, and overwhelming guilt, try as he might to remind himself it doesn't have to be real. 

He tries to speak. Ah, he doesn't have his voice again. But the phantom does, childishly high-pitched and bitter, angry. It is not a look of affection it gives him.

"Give me back my heart!" It repeats again, before it fades away entirely. "Give me back _my heart_!"

His stolen heart pounds thump-thump-thump and the guilt consumes him with wretched completeness. It does not matter that it was a willing offering, made without his consent or knowledge. He committed fratricide with his theft.

I can't make things right, his throat aches to say, but I can make a sacrifice at your altar.

This once he'll do what he's always wished to do with his brother's gift.

Very few of the swords found around the Neuro Tower have what one would properly call a blade. But he thinks he can make do with this. He yanks his shirt off first and grasps the back of where the steel is embedded into. The golden light casts an unusual gleam over the grey.

Do it, do it, don't die and do it.

He forces his spine straight as he starts to cut into himself. The first line lays his flesh open but has no depth. Not enough pressure. Readjust the grip, try again. Really dig it in. Blood runs down his body like washed-off dye. It looks startling bright on the floor, so much it hurts his eyes.

The blade scrapes into his breastbone. After all the pain he's endured, the many times he's died, he's almost used to it. But it's harder to do it to himself. He has to keep moving his hands to keep his grip.

In the center of his chest a meaty hole opens into the red-white of bone. It's getting harder to keep his eyes open. Hurry. Don't die and do it. Can he break through his sternum? Maybe it would have been easier to make the hole below his ribs and try to reach up inside himself to pluck his own heart seed but this way is... so much prettier...

He props the sword's handle into a corner of the room and rams himself into the edge as thoughtlessly as possible. Be a doll, not a person. Don't hold back. 

It's not the first time his chest has been broken apart. Still the crack of paralyzing agony brings him short and he collapses to his knees. It's a good thing, if you think about it. The pain kept him from skewering himself entirely and ruining his sacrifice.

He's so dizzy and nauseated it's difficult to keep his eyes open. His field of vision is a blur but he needs to see all he can. It's cracked open like an eggshell, his chest, a good place to stick his fingers in and pull. The effort is so detached he barely knows it's his own hand on his own body. Pull... he can't feel it. Is he moving at all? Pull harder. He hears breathy, voiceless sobbing in his ears. Puuuuuulllllll

llllllllohgodohchrist he falls forward onto his other hand and vomits sour bile, but he's almost at the finishing line, keep pulling, his chest is expanding, blooming. As soon as he can slip his hand in the broken edges of his sternum catch his arm like a toothed trap.

Is this it? This beating thing? Or a blood vessel? He'd try to see but everything is going soft and grey. Is this really it? Hearts have to be strong and healthy to do their job but he's never thought of his little brother's heart as so muscular and vital. Meaty. What a few years of not having a parasite to feed can do.

What little time he has left will come crashing to a halt once this is done, so he has to be quick and forceful. Be a doll, not a person.

He grits his teeth, digs his fingers in with all the muster he can manage, and pulls again, pulls until his bicep burns, it feels more like a horse heart than a person heart, puuuull, scouring lines down his wrist and over his hand through the maw in his chest and

his chest feels quiet and empty like it always used to. His spurting heart he sees only an instant as a blurr of red before he dies face-first in his own vomitus. Sorry for everything.


	29. Resurrection

At the bottom of the Neuro Tower, he shouldered the Angelic Rifle and purified the Absolute God. Everything went dark except for the glow of an Idea Sephirah--one capable of just about anything. Should have expected that, perhaps. He killed God, the same way he killed the world and his little brother. The only other one than him to appear was the Archangel, hand outstretched, "Let's you and I remake the world, using the Absolute God's Idea Sephirah."

He considered its watery glow over his hand. A new world. He has no interest in that, or in the world in general, whether it's distorted or not. Things are the way they are, but if the Archangel thinks he can change it around, there's only one request he has.

"Your brother?"

He's not brave enough to try it for himself. Not worthy enough. If the Archangel has anything, it's confidence, and this way, he can keep himself removed from this whole God business.

So it is he ends up returning to the grounds around the Tower. His/their body has always been buried in this place. It's a simple matter to find the plot even without landmarks. After digging up the small child's corpse (is this disrespectful? surely he'll forgive him) he sits by it and waits. It's hard to tell with the perpetually crimson sky but it feels like days upon days pass.

The skeleton knits together and grows. He'd been curious about seeing his little brother as his 'little' brother, but it'll be nice to be identical again. They'll be closer to being complete.

The heart blooms into being like a flower from a seed, vibrant and strong, pumping even before the rest of the musculature is finished developing. He kisses it until his face is smeared like a feasting wolf with a singular feeling of awe that two of such a beautiful thing should ever exist.


	30. Reunion

His little brother's eyes opened on his with sleepy incomprehension. His chest felt tight and near to bursting as soon as his eyelids started to flutter. Finally he can see it, the expression in his brother's face. They look so much more beautiful than his own... the thick, dark lashes, and hazy eyes, colored the way the sky used to be.

"My brother," he says thickly as he tries to keep himself from getting too sobby, "my baby brother."

He presses their foreheads together to nuzzle, constrained only by a thin thread of consideration from just squeezing him to death. Besides his own clothing, only a thin shift separates their bodies, and that only out of worry he'd be cold, than thinking either of them would be shy. 

His brother mouthes the word 'god'.

"Yes. The Archangel has it now, but... it's fine. Because now we can be together."

A look of consternation passes his brother's face--so cute how his eyebrows scrunch just a little--but it lights up. "Are you real?" Then his hands (innocently, he reminds himself) pass over his body, stroking his hair, nape, squeezing his shoulders and arms, under his shirt, then bursts into tears.

He feels his fingers even through the gnarled bunch of scar tissue on his left hip.

They sleep hip to hip like in the old days, between days of travelling to nowhere in particular, not managing anything more than surviving, but it's enough to be at each other's side. They hunt together, find shelter together, search old buildings twisted by the Blaze. Finally they can speak to each other, see really how they act, and he is mesmerized by the way his brother's voice is quieter than his but echoes more, and how he walks like a watchful animal, head slightly bowed but eyes facing upward. He wonders what he sees in him but finds it hard to ask between all the other small talk.

How long do you suppose until the world is back to normal? Until the Meta-Beings are gone? Until civilization returns? Most pertinently, are the clone laboratories still being maintained? 

"Not that I'd ever let you die again." 

Their hands fit perfectly into each other. They've found an overhang to sleep under this night, and while away time with this kind of conversation, and wondering where the constellations they used to know have gone to. Are they still somewhere behind this red smog?

His brother smiles a little and tightens his hand. It sends a quite unbrotherly jolt up his arm, and other places.

During the night is when he suffers most. Without any way to distract himself the truth comes up plain that he still desires him. He can't decide to bring it up or not, especially as he knows he only would out of hopes he returns his affection. He'd have thought he'd learn a thing or two by now about selfishness.

The feelings won't bury itself. Every night they warm his body and mind with illicit thoughts while he's unable in any way to relieve them.

One night as they lay together, more or less comfortable if you average them together, his brother squeezes his hand and again that jolt goes and finally, even though he thinks he'll hate him, he says, I love you.

"Oh? I love you too." How easily he says it, so purely, as if he hadn't been trying to work his nerve up to this because for him it meant something entirely different.

"Not like that. Not _just_ like that." His thumb rubs across the top of his little brother's. It feels like it'll be snatched away from him any moment now. "As a brother should."

He doesn't think he can be any clearer without explicitly saying it. His little brother does not jerk away. "What does that mean for us?"

"It doesn't mean anything." Don't tell him he had ever entertained the idea of him accepting him. Then he'd definitely hate him. "I just couldn't keep it away anymore."

His brother's hand spasms, fingers clutching down on his. He does not jerk away. "I remember my life, when you died. I used to... well, I'd read the books brought in from the outside world, and sometimes, there'd be some romance novel that had gotten popular." He pauses for breath and continues quicker than before, almost stumbling. "I missed being connected with you so badly, and even though nothing could make me happier than you being back, we're still not the same as we used to be, no matter how close we are."

His mouth goes dry, and his stolen heart beats hard enough to thump out of his chest. He's almost certain the opportunity for what he wants is being laid out before him; still, it's hard to reach for it. "And those novels... would talk about becoming one?"

"Of course it'd be a temporary solution, assuming it works. But just those moments..." His voice trails away, like he's imagining it. 

This isn't the perfect situation of his dreams--his little brother seems more attached to the idea of them being conjoined again than in returning his specifically romantic feelings. But that's life, as he's learned. "You're really fine with this? Even though we're brothers?"

Out of the corner of his eye he sees his brother's face turn toward him. He hopefully, reluctantly meets it and the small, bitter smile he's wearing. "I don't think anyone's in a place to judge us."


	31. Reunification

It takes a few days to move to the next step. Easy to say they can't be judged and they both want it, another thing entirely to act on it.

It helps when they come across the remains of a relatively stable house to stay in. Having four walls around them makes them feel less exposed to the world. They lay heart to heart instead of scar to scar.

"I love you."

"I love you too." His little brother strokes back his hair, lets it fall, strokes again. "But don't forget we will be more than lovers... just as we were always more than brothers. We were born in the halfway point of one and two."

He feels aroused in his gut, but it's tempered by the solemnity of the occasion. He wants to do so many of the half-fevered things he's imagined he's not sure where to start.

"We can kiss," his brother suggests, obviously sensing his uncertainty (because he knows him so well, or because he is simply obvious?).

It is good advice so he takes it, starting with his forehead, sliding down his nose to peck the tip. It's strange. He has smothered his brother with kisses aplenty in their youth, and in a way this feels no different, perhaps because as said, their feelings for each other had always been intense. Platonic or otherwise.

Their mouths press together like those sweet childhood memories at first, only pressing pink to pink then, unanimously it seems, red to red. Their tongues slip past each other in search of one another, and he finds a cavern that tastes full of honey nectar. In his desperate smushing his face into his he feels like he's finally broken off that strange sensation of déjà vu (he only ever--just the once!), though it's secondary now to the intensifying terseness in his belly and between his legs.

He travels lower, adam's apple, collarbone, then pulling up his shirt to kiss his breast (it thrums through his lips) and the stark edges of his ribs, and the scar where they had been separated at. The skin feels like an ugly twisted thing but all he feels is love.

"Still okay?" he whispers. A touch in his hair comforts him.

The snap unbuttons easily, the zipper slow and careful. Boxer-briefs beneath, worn cotton like everything else they came into this world with. His brother's navel sucks in as he strips his pants down, then shakes with quiet laughter when he almost smacks himself removing a shoe.

His brother is hard, same as he is, which is no small relief. Mutual, mutual, runs through his head. He kisses along the band of his underwear to stall a moment (even knowing they're twins doesn't help, like it has never helped; twins or not, his brother is his own person, and everything of him does not in the slightest make him think of himself) before continuing to strip him, revealing the tenderest choice of inner-thigh and his erection springing up. 

And now? Keep kissing? He nips along the meager fat of his legs, up and down, until on one trip up it feels natural to take his cock and suck experimentally on the head. His brother makes a keening noise he has never heard before and his legs jerk closed around him. Even when they release, they tremble. He sucks a little more, on and off, just to hear that noise waver like someone messing with a volume slider. All he wants is to get him ready though, not to get him off. That's later, if he's able at all.

"When we have--sex--we don't have anything to make it easier with," he says, sitting up. It'd be possible (penetrative rape wouldn't exist otherwise) but he'd hate to hurt him any.

"We'll have to go slow," his little brother says, sitting up too, roses in his cheeks. "But we're doing that anyway, right? So no problem."

"No problem," he echoes as his brother reaches for him and leads him down again, positions reversed now. His lips feel wet still as they brand his collarbone, and (as he is similarly denuded) the faded mark over their heart. 

His belly button next, and his scar, over and over again until he's pulling his pants off to get at more of the length of it, open-mouthed and sloppy until he'd be frenching it if it was a mouth. All he can feel is the pressure of his teeth and tongue, but the massage-like sensation is soothing.

And when he finally puts his mouth on his cock, he's sure he makes some cute noises of his own. No flight of imagination comes close to this tight suction, not just on the head but down the shaft as well, or the sight of him between his legs with his dick in his dainty mouth. Just looking at him urges on this feeling inside him.

He pops off before _he_ can pop off, in what feels like far too short a time though he's sure he knows why. 

"This should make it a little easier." 

Right. Still... he's so excited he knows he could go twice. Or maybe his brother is like him, in the sense that he wants his first orgasm with him to be during sex? He supposes he'd feel the same way in that position. He'd want his big brother to come inside him before anywhere else. Sometime later, he might want his little brother to do that too, anyway.

"On your back? Or like this?"

"Hmm..." His little brother wipes a gleam of something off the corner of his mouth and gazes down between them. "I think on my back is fine. I trust you."

Another kiss, solemn and slightly bitter and to the point, and as he helps his brother back down, he asks, "Can I marry you?"

His little brother smiles, and his eyes almost squeeze shut. "You don't have a last name to give me, but since it wouldn't change anyway... hey, will you promise to love me like this for the rest of our life?" He reaches up to him and pulls lightly on his shoulder, enough that he lowers the gap between them on his own, until they are nose to nose. "If we're going to be One... I don't think I can bear to be torn apart again."

He smiles wryly. "'til death do us part." He likes to think he had kept that promise before. There was never anyone else for him.

"Yes." His brother takes one of his hands, and sucks fervent and quick on the pointer and middle fingers together, then tears them spit-sloppy from his kiss-reddened lips to lead them down between his legs. "If you die again, I'll die. There's no point to existing in a world where I can't be with you."

He rubs down his perineum, down between his buttocks. His anus feels so small. But his wet fingers help for at least this much, that he can work them against it and gradually win his way in. His brother sighs and wraps his arms around his neck, bringing them cheek to cheek as his body is opened up. It's cushiony and warm and moist inside him, like he had his fingers in his entrails instead, or his brain. It's a more appropriate descriptor as far as he's concerned, much different from a nostril, though they are both mucous membranes.

"It'll make it easier if you try to stretch it out," brother whispers.

"Was that in your romance novels too?" he whispers back.

"Something like that."

He's not quite sure as he begins, having never experimented with himself like this, that he's doing it right, but he's not told to do otherwise. The point becomes plain after a few minutes though, after stretching and holding in each direction. It's becoming more pliable, and does as he likes with it more easily. His brother sighs into his ear from time to time, raising his hackles with a frisson.

"I think," he says presently, "I'm ready as I can be."

He pulls back against the bars of his forearms. He needs to be able to look him in the face for this. In the eye. If they're going to become one, if he's going to make his brother happy, there can't be any sort of barrier between them. 

A quick reapplication of his own saliva to hand to dick, and he blindly moves his pelvis, rubbing against tempting thigh, and what feels like his testicles. "I'm not sure if I can get to..."

"Sorry, my legs are in the way. Just pull them up."

His brother actually does most of the work for him, pulling them up, which seems fair when he shows no sign of letting go of him. But from this point he can pick his knees to ears with ease, and what a pretty sight that makes. And this time when his aim proves truer; first prod even. He feels the warmer center of flesh that slightly gives with pressure. 

"Still okay?"

"You haven't even done anything yet." Little brother's voice is gently amused. His fingers tap against his shoulder. "Yes, I'm okay."

He exerts only a little more pressure. It's hard to tell how much effort to put in. Should he push his luck at all? Just wait? Maybe it'd be easier if he could see, but all he has is his brother's face to guide him. He still doesn't seem very concerned though, so more should be fine. Very slowly and surely he can feel his body opening to him, accepting him inside. Even on his side it's sort of uncomfortable but the excitement far outweighs it. They're finally joined together in the only way they can be now. 

His little brother's eyes flutter close and barely open. It's getting hard to look at him, too. Not because he's embarrassed. Pure instinct is telling him to close his eyes to soak in the sensation as much as he can. He'd never imagined anything in the world could feel this good. Sweat gathers beneath his palms from either his own skin or the undersides of his brother's knees.

"I'm all the way in now." His voice shakes a little with feeling. "You feel amazing... I can't describe it. Hey, are we 'one' now?"

"Yes. It's like I've melded with you again. This is finally it."

He moves out as carefully as he had entered. Back in, out, resisting the itching urge in his arms to hold him down and have at. There's the same fear of making it painful, but too much at once and he'll probably come too soon. His entire cock and balls are throbbing like mad. Looking at his brother's face this close doesn't help in that regard. He can see every droplet of sweat roll off his brow, the increasing redness of his cheeks and pleasure-blurry eyes, all because he's fucking him. He's fucking his little brother.

Oops, shouldn't have had that thought. His balls have drawn up so tight they ache. His little brother laughs, eyes sparkling like drowned sapphires. "I can feel you pulsing. Are you close?"

Ugh. It's too much to even answer. In his head the thrill of saying out loud he's going to come would be enough to bowl him over. Just thinking it makes his nerve endings spark, like he's making himself more aware and preparing for it.

"It's fine. Just come inside, okay? And stay in me for a while."

Gonna do that anyway, he mumbles, and keeps as blank a mind as possible as his pace steadily increases. The fit's not loose by any means but it's more relaxed, easier to thrust. The airy 'gonna explode' buzz insistently vibrates through his body despite his attempt at detachment. His brother's cock is hard and wet straining against his belly so hopefully he's close too.

When the urge can no longer be ignored he buries himself entirely and holds, panting and trying not to squeeze too tight. A better climax than any he has ever experienced washes over him in multiple waves, resonating not merely in his groin but over his entire body. After it has all passed away, like a tide going down, he feels contented down to his very marrow. Everything feels right, even this shoddy little corner of a devastated world.

His brother plants a hundred kisses against the side of his face. "I felt it," he says in a giddy whisper, "I felt you do it. It was so much!"

Finally he releases him and he gets to straighten up to see what he may; his brother's belly is messy with pre-come, and he can see some of his own has backflowed onto the floor. Just a little. The rest he can feel if he concentrates hard enough to separate the sensations of his brother's wonderful body and a new squidgy feeling. "You haven't yet."

"I don't need to. Having you is enough."

That doesn't seem quite fair though. He gets himself a little more comfortable, where he can spread his legs out, and pulls his brother more onto his lap. His cock is kind of cute. Even at this age, it has an immature look to it, more like an adolescent's bubblegum than an adult. Or maybe he's being too much the big brother again.

It doesn't take long to help him out. He was already desperately close by the look of him, and so so sticky, that he's gasping and wriggling at a touch. A few strokes (and some pleasurably painful clenches on his cock) later and he's jettisoning semen into his cupped fist. After all the whimpering he goes completely quiet and still. The slight wavering of his pupils show that he's looking intently at him.

"You made a mess." He's already licking it off himself before any reply. Like his own, it's gotten more bitter, a sign that he's perhaps an adult after all. It still tastes better though.

"You made a mess too."

"No, I think that's where it's supposed to go."

He snickers and makes only a token effort at avoiding the smack on his arm.

They stay together as 'one' for a few more hours, holding close and drowsing until biology necessitates their parting. A temporary solution is all it is, and maybe still only an imitation of when they were so close as to share each other's blood and life. But he has struggled his entire life for this moment. He won't let it go ever again.


End file.
